The Rhythmless

The shirt is tight across the shoulders,

borrowed from a guy I barely know.

Everyone on the floor is doing a slide

that involves four counts and a clap,

but I’m three counts behind and sideways.

My rubber soles squeak on the parquet

like a wet tire in a parking garage.

I’m a tangle of elbows and bad timing,

shaking my hips like a broken machine,

but the punch is kicking in

and for once, I don’t mind being the glitch.